Epitaph for a Spy (12 page)

Beyond the inky darkness of the trees I could see two silent figures leaning against the parapet. It was the Major and his wife. As my footsteps grated on the path he turned his head. I heard him say something softly to her, then the two of them moved away. For a moment or two I stood listening to their footsteps dying away up the path, and was about to move to where they had been standing when I saw the glow of a pipe in the blackness near the trees. I went towards it.

“Good evening, Herr Heinberger.”

“Good evening.”

“Would you care for a game of Russian billiards?”

There was a shower of sparks as he tapped the pipe on the side of the chair.

“No, thank you.”

For some unaccountable reason my heart began to beat faster. Words and phrases were rising to my lips. I had an overwhelming desire to blurt out my suspicions of him there and then, denounce him, this man here sitting in the darkness, this invisible spy. “Thief! Spy!” I wanted to shout the words at him. I felt myself trembling. I opened my mouth and my lips moved. Then, suddenly, a match spluttered and flared, and I saw his face, thin and drawn in the yellow light, curiously dramatic.

He raised the match to the bowl of his pipe and drew the flame into it. The match flamed twice and went out. The glowing bowl moved in a gesture.

“Why not sit down, Herr Vadassy? There is a chair there.”

And, indeed, I was standing gaping at him like a fool. I sat down, feeling as if I had only just escaped being run over by a fast car, and that it was the driver’s skill rather than my own agility that had saved me. For sheer want of something to say I asked him if he had heard about the English couple and the incident on the beach.

“Yes, I have heard of it.” He paused. “It is said that the Englishman is unbalanced.”

“Do you think that is true?”

“Not necessarily. The real question is just how far he was provoked. Even a lunatic does not become violent unless he is stimulated.” Again he paused. “Violence,” he went on, “is a very odd thing. A normal man’s mind has an extraordinarily complex mechanism inhibiting him from using it. But the power of that mechanism varies with different cultures. With the Western peoples it is less powerful than with the Eastern. I do not, of course, speak of war. There, different factors are operating. The Indian is a good example of what I mean. The number of attempted assassinations of English officials in British India is, not unnaturally, very high. The interesting thing is the very large number of those attempts that fail. Most of them fail not because Indians are specially bad shots, but because at the crucial moment the would-be assassin becomes immobilized by his instinct against violence. I once talked with a Bengali Communist about it. He said that the Hindu might go with hate in his heart and a good revolver
to kill the local representative of his oppressors. He might escape detection, he might stand out of the crowd unobserved when the time came and his enemy approached and raise the revolver. The official would be at his mercy. Then the Indian would hesitate. He would see not the hated oppressor, but a man. His aim would falter and the next moment he would himself be shot down by the guards. A German or a Frenchman or an Englishman under the same hate-stimulus would have shot and shot straight.”

“And what sort of hate-stimulus do you think caused Major Clandon-Hartley to punch this Italian in the stomach?”

“Perhaps,” said he, with a touch of impatience, “he did not like the man.” He rose to his feet. “I have some urgent letters to write. You will excuse me?”

He went. For a time I remained seated in my chair, thinking. It was not of Major Clandon-Hartley that I thought, but of Herr Schimler’s Indian. “He would see not the hated oppressor, but a man.” I felt a bond of sympathy with that Indian. But that was not all, for “the next moment he would himself be shot down by the guards.” There was the whole thing in a nutshell. Fear and be slain. Or were you slain anyway, whether you were afraid or not? Yes, you were. Good did not triumph. Evil did not triumph. The two resolved, destroyed each other, and created new evils, new goods that slew each other in their turn. The essential contradiction. “Contradiction is the root of all movement and vitality.” Ah, that was Schimler’s sentence. I frowned in the darkness. If I paid a little more attention to Herr Schimler’s actions and less to what he said I should perhaps get somewhere.

I walked up to the house. The writing-room was empty.
So much for Schimler’s “urgent letters”! As I walked through the lounge I passed Madame Köche carrying a pile of linen. I said: “Good evening!”

“Good evening, Monsieur. You have seen my husband? No? He will be down playing ping-pong without a doubt. There are the clever ones who pass their days agreeably and the fools who slave behind the scenes. But someone must do the work. At the Réserve it is left to the women.” She swept on up the stairs calling shrilly for “Marie.”

I passed through the deserted lounge to the upper terrace.

Monsieur Duclos was sitting with a Pernod and a cigar at a table by the balustrade. He saw me, stood up, and bowed.

“Ah, Monsieur! I must apologize for leaving you all so abruptly. It was impossible, however, to remain there to be insulted.”

“I understand and sympathize, Monsieur.”

He bowed again. “You will take something to drink, Monsieur? I have here a Pernod.”

“Thank you, a vermouth-citron for me.”

He rang for the waiter and offered me a cigar, which I accepted.

“In spite of my years,” he said, pouring some water into his glass, “I am a proud man. Very proud.” He paused to take another piece of ice. I did not quite see why pride should diminish with age, but, fortunately, he went on before I could say so. “In spite of my years,” he repeated, “I would have struck this Roux, but for one thing. There were women present.”

“You took the most dignified course possible,” I assured him.

He stroked his beard. “I am glad you think so, Monsieur. But it is difficult for a proud man to curb his anger under such circumstances. When I was a student I fought a duel. The man disputed my word. I struck him. He challenged. We fought. Our friends arranged it.”

He sighed reminiscently. “It was a cold November morning; so cold that my hands were blue and numb. It is strange how such trifles worry a man. We took a carriage to the meeting-place. My friend wished to walk, for neither of us could afford a carriage. But I insisted. If I were to be killed it would not matter. If I were not killed the relief would be so great that I should not care about the expense. So we took a carriage. But all the same I was worrying about my cold hands. I put them in my pockets and still they were cold. I was afraid to put them under my arms for fear that my friend should think from my hunched attitude that I was frightened. I tried sitting on them, but the leather of the seats was smooth and shiny and even colder. All my thoughts were centered in my hands. And do you know why?”

I shook my head. His eyes twinkled behind the pince-nez.

“Because, in the first place, I was afraid that I should not be able to shoot straight enough to hit my opponent and, secondly, because if his hands were as cold as mine he might have the luck to hit me.”

I smiled. “I take it, Monsieur, that all went well, after all.”

“Perfectly! We both missed. We not only missed. We nearly shot our seconds.” He chuckled. “We have laughed over it many times since. He is now the owner of the factory next to mine. He has five hundred workmen. I have seven
hundred and thirty. He makes machinery. I make packing-cases.” The waiter arrived. “A vermouth-citron for Monsieur.”

I was puzzled. Someone, Skelton or the Major, had told me that Monsieur Duclos had a canning factory. I must have been mistaken.

“Times are difficult,” he was saying. “Wages rise, prices rise. The next moment prices fall, yet wages still must rise. I am forced to reduce wages. What happens? My workmen strike. Some of them have been with me for many years. I know them by their names, and as I walk through the factory I greet them. Then the agitators, the Communists, went among them, turning them against me. My men struck. What did I do?”

The waiter arriving with my drink absolved me from the necessity of replying.

“What did I do? I sat down to think. Why had my men turned against me? Why? The answer was—ignorance. Poor fellows, they did not understand, they did not know. I resolved to call them together, to explain to them the simple truth. I, Papa Duclos, would explain. It needed courage, for the young men did not know me as well as the old ones and the agitators had done their work well.”

Monsieur Duclos sipped at his Pernod.

“I faced them,” he said dramatically, “standing on the steps of the factory. I held up my hand for silence. They were silent. ‘My children,’ I said, ‘you wish for increased wages.’ They cheered. I held up my hand again for silence. I spoke again. ‘Let me tell you, my children, what will happen if I do this. Then you may make your own choice.’ They murmured
and were silent again. I felt inspired. ‘Prices are falling,’ I continued. ‘Prices are falling. If I increase your wages the prices of the Duclos works will be higher than those of our competitors. We shall lose orders. For many of you there will no longer be work. Do you wish that?’ There were shouts of ‘no!’ Some agitators cried in their ignorant way that the profits must be reduced. But how can one explain to such imbeciles that interest must be paid on investments, that if there were no profits business would come to a stop? I ignored these shouts. I went on to tell them of my love for them, of my sense of responsibility for their welfare, of how I wished to do the best for all, of how we must co-operate for the sake of ourselves and of France. ‘We must all,’ I said, ‘make sacrifices for the common good.’ I appealed to them to accept a reduction in wages with stout hearts and the determination to work even harder. When I had finished they cheered me, and the older men agreed among themselves that all should go back to work. It was a great moment. I wept for joy.” His eyes glistened through the pince-nez.

“I great moment, as you say,” I said tactfully. “But is it, do you think, quite as simple as that? If wages fall, do not prices fall still further for the reason that people have less to spend?”

He shrugged.

“There are,” he said vaguely, “certain economic laws with which it is unwise for man to tamper. If wages rise above their natural level the delicate balance of the system is upset. But I must not bore you with these affairs. In my factory I am a businessman, alert, decisive, strong. Now I am on holiday. For the moment my great responsibilities are put aside.
I am content to soothe my tired brain with contemplation of the stars.”

He flung his head back and looked at the stars. “Beautiful!” he murmured raptly. “Magnificent! Such quantities! Formidable!”

He looked at me again. “I am very sensitive to beauty,” he said. He turned his attention to his glass, diluted the contents with some more water and drank it off. Then he looked at his watch and stood up.

“Monsieur,” he said, “it is half past ten. I am old. I have enjoyed our discussion. Now, with your permission, I will retire to bed. Good night.”

He bowed, shook hands, put his pince-nez in his pocket, and walked, rather unsteadily, indoors. Only then did it occur to me to suspect that perhaps Monsieur Duclos had had more than one Pernod that evening.

For a time I sat in the lounge and read a fortnight-old
Gringoire
. Then, tiring of this, I went out into the garden to look for the Americans.

The ping-pong table was deserted, but the light was still glaring down on it. The bats lay crossed, with a dented ball lying between the handles. I picked up the ball and bounced it on the table. It made an odd, cracked sound. As I replaced it between the bats I heard a step somewhere near at hand. I turned round expecting to see someone. The darkness beyond the pool of light round the table was intense. If there was anyone there I could not see him or her. I listened, but there was no further sound. Whoever it was must have passed by. I decided to go down to the alcove on the lower terrace.

I threaded my way through the bushes to the path and
began to descend. I had nearly reached the steps and could see a narrow strip of starry blue-black sky between the cypresses when it happened.

There was a slight rustle in the bushes on my left. I went to turn. The next moment something hit me on the back of the head.

I don’t think that I actually lost consciousness, but the next thing I realized at all coherently was that I was lying on my face, half off the path, and that something was pinning my shoulders to the ground with considerable force. Lights were flashing behind my eyes and my ears were singing; but behind the singing I could hear the sound of somebody’s quick breathing, and I could feel hands fumbling in my pockets.

Almost before my stunned brain had begun to absorb these facts the whole thing was over. The pressure on my shoulders suddenly relaxed, a shoe grated on the path, then there was silence.

For several minutes I lay where I was, my hands clasping my head as waves of sickening pain began to surge through it. Then, as the waves subsided into a steady throb, I got slowly to my feet and struck a match. My note-case was lying open on the ground. It contained only money and a few odd papers. Nothing had been taken.

I started to walk towards the house. Twice I became dizzy and had to stop and wait for the fit to pass, but I gained my room without assistance and without meeting anyone. I sank on the bed with a sigh. The relief of being able to rest my head on a soft pillow was almost painful.

It may have been delayed concussion or it may have been sheer weariness, but in less than a minute I seemed to go to
sleep. The inconsequence of my last conscious thought makes me think that it must have been concussion.

“I must remember,” I kept saying to myself, “to tell Beghin that Mrs. Clandon-Hartley is an Italian.”

L
ooking back on those next twenty-four hours is, I find, like looking at a stage through the wrong end of a pair of opera-glasses. The people on it are moving, but their faces are too small to see. I must try to turn the glasses the right way round. And yet, when I try to do that the figures are blurred at the edges and distorted. It is only by, so to speak, looking at one portion of the stage at a time that I can see things clearly.